


Hand Grenade

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brother Feels, Hallucifer, M/M, Male Solo, Sam Hallucinates, Season/Series 07, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-03 08:17:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5283503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam feels like he might explode, like he's doomed to drown, but Dean is there to catch him and keep him afloat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand Grenade

**Author's Note:**

> This is set after the Amy Pond/Kitsune episode in Season 7, _The Girl Next Door_. It's not a timestamp; references are made.
> 
> Lyrics are from _Grenade_ , Bruno Mars.
> 
>  
> 
> _For Nicole._

_Gave you all I had and you tossed it in the trash_  
_You tossed it in the trash, you did_  
_To give me all your love is all I ever asked 'cause_  
_What you don't understand is I'd catch a grenade for ya_

 _Throw my head on a blade for ya_  
_I'd jump in front of a train for ya_  
_You know I'd do anything for ya_

 _Oh oh, I would go through all this pain_  
_Take a bullet straight through my brain_  
_Yes, I would die for ya baby_  
_But you won't do the same_

 

There’s a cut on Sam’s hand that won’t heal. He won’t let it. He presses his thumb into it, feels the dull throb of it seep past his skin and muscle down into the bone. And then deeper. He soaks up that ache like a warm bath, sinking down below the water, until the voice he was hearing so clearly is distorted beyond comprehension.

He has to breathe sometime, of course. But that’s all right. He’s got some kind of crazy lung capacity.

 _“Crazy is right,”_ remarks Lucifer from his left.

Lucifer is always on Sam’s left.

Sam grips the stock of his shotgun tighter, tighter until the skin over his knuckles feels like it’ll shear right off the bone.

 _“You really should save your hands, Sammy,”_ Lucifer tells him. _“They’re good hands.”_

He giggles to himself, then leans in closer. _“They look like big, strong hands, don’t they?”_

Quoting a sad character from a weird old movie won’t make Sam budge. Dean told him to wait right here, and wait he will until Dean gets back.

 _“Dean’s not coming back,”_ Lucifer tells him, mock-mournfully. _“He met a stripper with a heart of gold and now they’re getting married.”_

The hallucination hums the Wedding March. It morphs into Darth Vader’s theme. Sam wishes he were back underwater. But if he lets go his hold on the shotgun to press his thumb into his injured palm, any number of things could happen.

He could be attacked by this thing they’re hunting.

Dean could show up and bitch about Sam getting sloppy.

But if he doesn't, Lucifer could convince him there’s a dragon they haven’t killed yet, that it’s rearing up in front of him, and startle Sam into firing at thin air -- or worse, at an innocent he can’t even see.

Sam shifts his grip on the gun again and tries to quiet his mind. He never had the focal points Dean had; doesn’t remember their mother singing ‘Hey Jude’, doesn’t really care for Metallica. Music was never his safe space. However, he realizes he does have facts upon facts in his head.

He begins to recite the times tables. _Two times one is two, two times two is four…_

Lucifer hums in acquiescence. He’s slouched against the wall next to Sam, no heat coming off him. It’s the strangest disconnect. It’s always been Dean at Sam’s side. Even in those disjointed memories of when Sam was soulless and working alone, the cold adjacent space was one of the most unsettling parts.

_Two times eight is sixteen, two times nine is eighteen…_

_“You’re so smart, Sam,”_ Lucifer says quietly. He sounds impressed. It shocks Sam into looking straight at him. Those muddy blue eyes hold respect, and a kind of scrutiny that tells Sam he took the devil aback. That’s not an expression he’s used to seeing on that face. It looks good there.

But he won’t let it sway him. His hands ache around the gun. _Two times ten is twenty. Two times eleven --_

_Is --_

Lucifer is moving nearer. He’s stepping into Sam’s space. Sam stumbles back, his right shoulder blade slamming into the wall, and Lucifer follows him. A solid weight presses in to one of Sam’s hips and then the other, and a warmth that hadn’t existed before snugs up right against his cock. Lucifer’s hips, Lucifer’s thighs. His taut stomach, bowing back from Sam as the devil gets a good look at him. The shotgun is both pressed between their bodies and sticking straight through Lucifer’s chest, and Sam tries desperately to hold on to that disparity as Lucifer runs a thoughtful hand slowly up Sam's arm.

 _“I’ve always admired your intelligence, Sam,”_  he says. Sam can feel the rumble of the words echoing through Lucifer’s body and into his.

 _It’s all in your head,_ he tells himself. _All in your head._

_Two times twelve is twenty-four. Two times thirteen is twenty-six._

_“It’s part of why I so enjoyed our interactions. You aren’t a dull sack of crap like most of the humans that crawl around here. You use that big ol’ brain of yours.”_ The hand continues up to Sam’s shoulder, deft fingers sliding up his neck and into his hair. One fingertip taps his temple. _“You’re cognizant.”_

 _Two times eighteen is thirty-six. Two times nineteen is thirty-eight --_ Twos aren’t hard enough. Not enough of a challenge to hold his focus. Fives skipping up by three, that should do it: _Five times twelve is sixty. Five times fifteen is forty-five. Five times eighteen is --_

Lucifer grips Sam’s hair tight and slams his head back against the wall. A dull thwack, pain ringing out behind Sam’s eyes. He screws them shut with a groan. Everything reverberates.

 _“You’re thinking, but you’re not thinking about what I_ need _you to think about, Sammy,”_ the devil hisses. The hand in his hair feels real, the pain in his skull is definitely real, and the hips grinding slow and deliberate feel real enough for the friction to register to Sam’s cock.

He feels himself begin to stiffen and swallows down a whimper.

 _“That’s right,”_ Lucifer coaxes. _“Think about that. Think about how good I feel pressed up against you.”_

 _Oh, god._ Sam’s cock swells. He opens his eyes, thinking it’ll feel less real somehow if he can see. But Lucifer’s face is maybe an inch from his, pale skin whole and just waiting to be licked --

_Six times --eighteen is --_

_Eight -- times --_

Sam is panting.

 _“Think about how my cock feels up against yours,”_ Lucifer purrs. _“I’m hard for you, aren’t I?”_

He is. _Oh fuck, he_ is.

_“Think about my body on yours, naked and starting to sweat. You’re making me so hot -- because Sam, let’s face it. I_ know _you.”_ He emphasizes the word with a little knock of Sam’s head against the wall, Sam’s hair still tangled around his fingers. The tender area stings. _“You’re like a sexy little furnace, aren’t you? You pour out your heat on whoever you’re with -- and baby, nobody can take the heat like me.”_

He leans in closer, lips brushing Sam’s jaw. _“Even though Hell is ice cold.”_

The words are punctuated with a vicious, sinuous grind. Sam’s body reacts regardless of his mind whirling, as frantic for the touch as Sam is to find a distraction from it. “Ah!” escapes his clenched teeth.

 _“Yeah,”_ Lucifer growls, _“that’s it.”_ He presses in closer, working his entire body against Sam’s in one long press of heat and delicious pressure, licking into a spot over Sam’s jugular. He grins against Sam’s neck.

Sam trembles, anticipating.

Lucifer sinks his teeth in deep.

The whine that escapes Sam comes from deep in his throat, from his chest, and he sags down the wall in an attempt to both get away and get closer. Lucifer follows him, swinging one leg out and straddling him. Sam forgets that he’s holding a gun. He’s holding muscled hips instead, feeling the weight of them, pulling them closer against his.

Where he needs them most.

_“You need me, don’t you, Sam?”_

God help him, but he does.

_Thirty-three times six is --oh, fuck it._

Sam tilts his head up and whines again. Lucifer’s lips tremble into a smirk that’s too fleeting to be anything but a posture. He hums his approval, diving in for a brutal kiss.

Snarling, Sam kisses back with teeth as much as lips; tearing, tasting, sweeping his tongue in and claiming that smart mouth. Lucifer doesn’t give it up easily. He fights Sam for every inch of dominance -- but the noises he’s making tell Sam that’s all for show. Lucifer wants this, _has_ wanted this.

Knows Sam’s wanted it too.

The fucking smirking bastard --

Fingers still in Sam’s hair, Lucifer tears their mouths apart. Sam’s head hits the wall again in the same spot. It fucking smarts. But Sam is grinning. He gets to see the devil with his precious feathers ruffled, and it’s a glorious sight: that blond hair mussed from hands Sam barely remembers running through it, those lips kiss-bitten and beautiful. So red. Like blood.

Sam made the devil bleed.

He chuckles so deeply it comes from the same place that’s aching to pulse, fuck, own the body pressed against it.

His shotgun clattered useless to the ground ages ago.

_“You think you can own the devil, Sam?”_

Sam feels powerful, like the answer is a definite yes, but he lets his expression speak for him. He can tell the look on his face must be incendiary. Eyes dark, lips owning a smirk. He feels flushed with this power like some kind of god. Like Castiel must have felt, when he was --

Snap.

Back to reality.

There goes the rabbit, and Sam is looking _through_ Lucifer down a darkened dirty street. City lights sparkle through the devil’s body, his pale skin, lighting him up like he’s a canvas painted to look like urban night.

 _“Ah,”_ Lucifer says knowingly, with a tilt of his translucent head. _“Come back to ourselves, have we?”_

Sam exhales and breathes, bolstering himself. _Sixteen times thirty-two is five hundred and twelve,_ he thinks firmly. _Eighteen times twenty-five is four-fifty._

_I can think you out, you son of a bitch._

_“Hmm,”_ Lucifer purrs. He grinds himself against Sam again, but the sensation is lessened now that Sam has regained his clarity. Well, what he had of it to begin with.

Sam’s palm itches.

He realizes he’s dropped the gun.

In order to pick it up, he has to lean forward through Lucifer, and in the end has to close his eyes to do it. He still feels a phantom warmth and sensation. The shotgun is cold in his hands. It’s been on the ground for awhile. Sam clutches it close, feeling his knuckles bulge again beneath the skin of his hands.

 _Dean would tell you to lotion up,_ he thinks, even though Dean’s hands are rougher than tire tread.

And Dean would tell him that with some kind of lewd eyebrow waggling, because Dean is a tireless perv.

 _“Sounds like the apple doesn’t fall far from the other apple,”_ Lucifer says.

“That’s a shit metaphor,” Sam murmurs aloud.

_“But an apt one. You think Dean is the only perverted one in this family? What were you just doing, Sam?”_

Sam frowns. He’s got the shotgun, he’s got a real wall at his back. He needs to focus on those. He digs his shoulder blade into the rough surface. It doesn’t do much through jacket and shirts, but it’s something.

 _“I’ll tell you what.”_ Lucifer snugs up against him again, regaining solidity as he does until he’s nosing under Sam’s jaw and his breath is somehow warm and ticklish against Sam’s skin. _“You were kissing me.”_

A tremor of desire ripples rampant through Sam’s body. Yes, he was. And it’s been too long.

_“ _I_ t has, hasn’t it?”_

Too long since he held someone, too long since he kissed an eager mouth. Too long since he had any relief that didn’t come from his own right hand.

 _“And I can give you that relief, Sam,”_ Lucifer tells him breathlessly, grinding up against him, worming his hands into and up under Sam’s shirts. Nimble fingers find a nipple and Sam cries out hungrily.

God, that’s the spot. That’s his trigger.

Lucifer knows because Sam knows.

_Forty-five times a hundred and twelve --_

_“No dice, Einstein,”_ Lucifer snarls, and nips hard at Sam’s nipple through his shirts.

Sam slams his head back against the wall with a moan.

He’s working his hips against this nebulous force of heat and pressure, one that fades in and out with every breath of chill night air Sam sucks into his lungs. It’s maddening. He just can’t get enough, and that’s what drives him to fling the shotgun away, to pull this specter closer. They’re kissing again, hard and rough, Lucifer pulling Sam’s hair hard enough that every time he shifts his grip a strand flutters loose to the pavement.

Some part of Sam knows with distant embarrassment that he’s pressed up against this wall in the alley, completely alone, one hand scrabbling down his pants and the other tweaking his nipple hard enough to bruise. He knows like he might in a dream.

It’s not important.

What’s important is the way Lucifer smells, brimstone and sugar, and the way his teeth are digging into Sam’s lip. The way his hands with their long fingers work around Sam’s head, his neck, twitching between erogenous zones like he just can’t choose which to stimulate next. Even more important is the hard line of his cock riding up along Sam’s, pressing the zipper in painfully. Sam’s threadbare boxers might catch fire from the friction. His jeans feel too thick and too thin all at once. He’s aware of the snag of his waistband burning his wrist, but it translates to Lucifer gripping him hard enough to chafe.

He could come from this.

He _wants_ to come from this, far more desperately than he’s ever wanted to be sane.

His tongue twitches on the L of a name that he doesn’t dare moan aloud. He settles for a shaky _nnn_ out his nose, teeth clenched tight against that name.

 _“Say my name, Sam,”_ Lucifer groans, snugged up against him, moving with frantic purpose.

No. No, he won’t.

 _“Say it, please,”_ the devil begs. _“I haven’t heard my own name in so long. Not like this.”_

Sam will not. He won’t. He --

 _“ _S_ am,”_ Lucifer mewls, hot as a brand against his ear.

“Ah, Lu--”

“Sam?” calls a different voice entirely.

Adrenaline slams through Sam, doubles him over, hands torn from their incriminating stations on his body. He gulps air as silently as he can, counting the feet from where he heard Dean speak to where he knows Dean will emerge around the corner. He sees the gun discarded there on the ground and grabs for it. There’s no way he’s in the mood to hear a lecture on safety. Not right now.

Not tonight.

By the time Dean emerges, Sam isn’t in any more control of his body -- he knows his cock is jutting straight out of his jeans like some obscene monument to back-alley hedonism -- but he is standing up straighter. That counts for something, right? Even though he’s shaking, from shock and from the denial of an orgasm just out of reach.

Dean eyes him like he’s dangerous. But not like he’d eye anything he’d kill. Sam knows this look, knows sure as he’s seeing Dean’s pupils dilate, breath puffing faster in the chill night air. The push/pull between them has been tense ever since Sam, lacking a soul, propositioned Dean like he was nothing but a barfly in a ten-dollar dress. But Sam knows his brother wants him, the real him, crazy or not. They’ve been doing this dance for years.

Normally, Sam has the patience of a saint.

But now he’s been teasing himself to extremes for the better part of an hour. Playing both the apple and the snake. He remembers the way Lucifer’s lips and teeth felt worrying his skin, how real and not real they had been. The need surges back.

He can see Lucifer’s eyes narrowing there in the darkness, right in front of him.

“Sammy?”

Dean steps into a halo of light.

It’s striking, how beautiful his brother is, especially like this; at night, at the height of a hunt. Dean sinks into his element like a predator. The strength in his lithe muscles is apparent. He stalks a little closer and the light barely kisses his skin, the tufts of his hair, the barrel of the gun he’s tucking slowly into his waistband. He looks like some kind of god to Sam. Like some kind of salvation.

His brother can save him from this weird darkness inside him, Sam knows.

“Dean,” he pants, hips working in little circles, the shotgun clutched but forgotten against his chest. “I need --”

Dean clenches his jaw the way he does when he’s not happy, the bolt of it jumping. Sam doesn’t like to see that. Doesn’t like knowing he’s the cause. But his cock is aching it’s so stupid hard, and he knows Dean won’t refuse.

Not when he begs.

“Dean, _please.”_

Dean sucks air in through his nose, sharp, tossing his head like a stallion. “Sam,” he growls, want and hesitation and that god-awful sense of honor all swimming in one familiar syllable. Sam wants to tell his brother exactly where to shove that honor -- and his cock -- but embarrassment is flooding back through his veins.

His erection starts to flag.

“Uh --”

“Goddamnit, Sammy,” Dean barks, already halfway to his knees.

He hits the asphalt and Sam feels the thump up through his boots and his legs, bypassing his cock and striking him in the ventricles. “Jesus, Dean,” he breathes, hips jerked this way and that as Dean rips open his belt buckle.

“Gonna be the fucking death of me,” Dean mutters, tearing open Sam’s fly and fishing him out. Not like it takes much work. Sam is beyond ready, the thick root of him falling eagerly into Dean’s hot palm.

“Oh, fuck,” Sam says with a hiss, bucking into his brother’s grip.

Dean hums, eyes pinned to Sam’s cockhead. “Yeah,” he murmurs. His breath gusts over tender skin. Sam whimpers, but the sound morphs into something degenerate and animal when Dean’s mouth closes over his cock.

He’s every bit as good at this as Sam imagined he’d be. That plush mouth is so hot, so skilled as it works up and down every inch. Dean takes him deep with so little effort. Sam almost can’t believe it. He’s grabbing at Dean’s shoulders, his hair before he can help himself. Sam has to force his touch to be gentle; guiding, not controlling. He’d never want Dean to feel like he was being assaulted.

But Dean seems to be enjoying this. A lot. He’s moaning around Sam’s cock, his entire body moving with the motion of his hand up and down Sam’s thigh, gripping Sam’s ass, and his own hips working to the motion of his head. He’s so into it that to Sam it’s like he’s in his own private porno, with the hottest star he’s ever seen down on his knees on the dirty ground. Moaning for Sam.

Mouthing around Sam, soft and wet and fucking delicious. It tingles on up Sam’s spine, crawling around on his scalp.

 _“Dean,”_ he whines. He’s so damn close.

And Dean, bless and curse him, just moans a muffled, “Mm hmm,” around him and keeps on working, sucking, twisting his head and his tongue around until Sam has to throw his head back on a yell and come down his brother’s throat.

His fevered grunts echo down the alley as he bucks with each spurt, grinding Dean’s nose into short bristly hairs. Dean inhales deeply, sucking him through it, until just before Sam gets too sensitive.

Dean pulls off with a gasp.

“Sammy,” he whispers, and falls over backward. His hips are working in frantic circles. Sam watches, amazed, as Dean presses down hard and bucks into his palm once, twice, three times. He comes in his jeans with a hoarse cry.

Sam stumbles to his knees, to all fours, crawling over so he can lean down to capture that plush, panting mouth and plunder it with his tongue.

The helpless noise Dean shudders down his throat is almost as good as the orgasm.

They make out for what feels like hours. It’s sloppy. Careless.

Amazing.

When Sam is too short of breath, he pulls away. A line of spit snags out between them, but Sam is too in awe of the dark, sated look in Dean’s eyes to notice. Sucking in air, he lurches to an elbow, on his side like an apostrophe along Dean’s side. His other arm he spans across Dean’s rib cage, his shoulder being worked in its socket as Dean breathes.

They lie there in relative silence, coming down to ambient noises of dogs and cars, far off.

Dean breaks the silence when his breaths are mostly even. “You told me I look at you like you’re a hand grenade, you remember that?”

Sam remembers.

“But dude -- I’d catch you. I’d always catch you.”

“Yeah, and throw me at somebody else.”

Dean socks him in the arm, hard. It hurts.

It’s real.

“I wouldn’t and you know it.”

Sam almost can’t look in his brother’s eyes to see what’s painted there. But he does, because even though he knows Dean is telling the truth, he has to look hard to assure every part of himself.

Dean stares back. It’s a simple thing. Profound, in their way.

The part of Sam that is Lucifer fades back into so much static.

“You know I would do the same damn thing,” Sam says. He sees Dean get it. Sees it spark and catch fire in the forest of those eyes.

“Yeah,” is all Dean says but there’s a mutual understanding, and for once, Sam doesn’t feel like he needs to press his thumb into the cut on his palm. He doesn’t need to duck his head back under the water. Not when there’s somebody here to keep him afloat.

Certainly not when that somebody is Dean.

“ _You need me, don’t you, Sam?”_ Lucifer echoes through his mind.

Sam just snuggles up closer to Dean. _Not at all,_ he thinks, and it’s true. _Not at fucking all._

 

 

_**fin.** _

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> If you liked this fic, please consider leaving kudos/a comment. I really appreciate feedback. ♥


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